


i want to get to know you better and better

by hihoplastic



Series: and who but you would take me in a thousand kisses deep [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Spoilers for Episode: The Day of the Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you have it?" he asks, rocking back on his heels. "The real version."</p><p>"What real version?"</p><p>"Don't play coy with me, Doctor Song," he says, voice light and eyes soft.  "You're clever, far too clever, even for me.  I didn't know then, but I do now.  All that research.  All those years nipping through time and space, studying me, studying the Time War.  You <i>know.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to get to know you better and better

**Author's Note:**

> \- spoilers for _the day of the doctor_  
>  \- gratuitously self-indulgent 12/river fluff  
> \- because i'm still pissed off  
> \- hi my name is kaz and i'm an 11/river apologist

_sweeter smarter faster_  
 _you you you_  
 _prettier than me_  
 _stronger than me_  
 _lonelier than me_

_i want to get_  
 _to know you_  
 _better and better_

\- Leonard Cohen, "Better"  
 _Book of Longing_

*

“And what do _you_ make of all this, Ms. Song?” 

Licking her lips, River pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I think… I think, at the heart of it all, we’re really talking about a man. Just a man. A man faced with an impossible choice, a choice no other was willing to make. Without this man, we would not exist. The universe as we know it, and universes beyond it, would not exist. The Time War would have ravaged every planet, every species, without end, had The Moment not been utilised.” 

“And you believe this justifies the cost of life?” 

River shakes her head. “There is no justification for murder, Professor. There are only sacrifices. The Doctor chose the universe over his people; the smaller number of deaths."

“Your thesis notes that 2.47 billion children alone were burned. I wouldn’t call that a small number.”

Tensing, River squares her jaw at the professor’s tone. “Yes. That’s true, though it’s not the wording I’d choose. The Daleks, as you know, would have wiped out everyone, or worse. According to a encrypted communique intercepted by the High Council, we also know their conversion technology was almost complete, as explicated on page 574. Prior to the Time War, conversion was deemed an irrelevant strategy, and only tentatively researched, and rejects we're sent to the Asylum. But had they completed their efforts—that is, had their research not been destroyed by The Moment—not only would they have continued the slaughter of billions, but with every planet, increased their army nearly tenfold." 

The woman ignores her. “And how did you come by this information?”

“As you’ll see in the sources, the casualty statistics come from a census conducted by the High Council a year before the Time War began, which were then extrapolated for population inflation based on a report by the Gallifrey Political Chamber published three years before that. The latter information was gleaned from additional communiques, as well as documents from the Dalek archives."

Her adviser, at least, looks impressed. “You cracked the Dalek encryption code?”

“It’s less a code and more of a hive-mind,” she explains. “The structure and security of their internal communications were primitive at best during the Time War; over the centuries, they’ve become much more complex. I was able to hack the earlier data, but doing the same with their communications now would take decades. Or a genius.” 

“And the sources from the High Council? I thought those documents were in Gallifeyan.”

“They are, Professor.”

A gangly man looks up at her with scepticism. “And you had them translated? By whom?” 

River hesitates. “No, Professor. I can read it.” 

At this, the third judge lowers her spectacles. “Pardon me, Ms. Song, but you expect the panel to believe that, in addition to your studies, and…‘cracking the Dalek hive-mind,’ you mastered Gallifreyan? Without a tutor?” 

“I never said that, Professor.”

She snorts. “And who exactly did you get to teach you?” River arches an eyebrow, and the woman balks. “The Doctor? He’s _dead._ ”

River flinches, but recovers with a smirk, a bravado she doesn’t really feel. “Not everywhere.” 

“If you’ve acquainted yourself with the Doctor himself, Ms. Song, isn’t that liable to impact your research? You’ve intended to give us an unbiased dissertation on the Time War, when in reality—”

“Pardon me, Professor, but a paper of this magnitude and breadth _without_ bias would be nothing more than a series of facts and statistics, and even those would be swayed by the authority documenting them in the first place. It’d also be rather a bore, wouldn’t you agree? The central thesis of my dissertation argues that the utilisation of The Moment and the actions taken by the Doctor to end the Time War was the only option left available to minimise the number of deaths, among those on Gallifrey and across the universe.” She folds her hands in front of her. “And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that the guidelines for graduate dissertations require a persuasive thesis—guidelines, if I’m not mistaken Professor, _you_ put into effect at the start of your tenure.”

Her adviser clears his throat, covering a laugh, speaks before the woman gets a chance. “I believe we’ve heard enough, Ms. Song.” He smiles kindly. “Unless you’ve something to add?” 

“No. I think my work speaks for itself.”

He winks. “I think you’re quite right. Congratulations, Ms. Song. We’ll review your dissertation shortly and you’ll have a grade posted by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, Professor.” She nods to the rest of the panel, archaeologists and sociologists and linguists, watching as they file out. Most of them remained quiet during the defence, awed and intrigued. She’ll have a rough time with Professor Splain, she knows—the woman’s never liked her. But she isn’t worried about the rest of them. 

The door shuts behind them, and River waits another moment or two in the silence of the auditorium before she lets out a long breath, closing her eyes to gather herself. It’s over. 

A sharp clapping makes her start, and when she looks up there’s a man walking down the carpeted steps. He looks familiar, somehow, with grey hair and deep lines around his eyes, but she’s never seen him before.

“Can I help you?”

“Wonderful,” he says, his eyes bright. “Fantastic—no, _phenomenal_ work. Phenomenal—that’s a good word, isn’t it?” 

She can’t tell if he’s mocking her or genuine; she’s had enough ridicule from classmates, teachers, and even strangers. River sighs, gathering her presentation materials and shoving them in her bag. “Thank you,” she says, but she can tell her voice is flat and empty. 

“I mean it,” he says, suddenly closer now. “You were—you _are_ —amazing.” He smiles, an old, kind smile, and River’s hearts stutter. 

“Do I know—” She inhales sharply, the smell of him, of time energy and the vortex and _her_. “Doctor?” 

He nods to her deferentially. “Doctor.” 

She smiles, nerves fluttering, reaching for him and then pulling away. “This is a new face.” 

He catches her hand before she can withdraw it completely, cradling it between his own, soft and weathered. “What’d you think? Am I still dashing enough for you?” 

River hums thoughtfully. “It’s certainly an improvement on the eyebrows.” 

Instead of waving his hands or stuttering at her, this Doctor laughs, a low, warm sound that shivers down her spine, and he looks at her with such affection, like she’s just said the most perfect words. 

It’s a stark contrast from the last time she saw him, and the thought sobers her instantly. Clearing her throat, she pulls away from him gently, fiddling with her papers and bag so she doesn’t have to meet his gaze. 

“So. Where are we, then?”

“What, no spotters guide?” he teases, taking her bag the moment she goes to shoulder it. He carries it instead, and when she rounds the podium, he takes her hand. She looks up at him, startled, and he smiles, not quite as bright. “I know where we are,” he says quietly, lifting her hand to his lips. “My clever girl.”

River frowns, unaccustomed to the affection. He has to be an older Doctor, she knows that—one who’s met her, who’s already worn the face she knows best. But he’s softer, this Doctor—gentler, calmer. Lighter somehow, and she wonders if this Doctor remembers. If he knows what _really_ happened. 

But that’s spoilers, and there’s no way to ask, so she shrugs and puts on her best smirk and says, “We’ll find out in three days, won’t we?” 

“Ah,” he says, releasing her hand to tap her nose. “But we already know, don’t we?” 

River’s eyes widen fractionally as he jumps down off the stage and offers her his hand. “You know whether or not I passed, don’t you?” 

He grins. “Mum’s the word.” 

River purses her lips, but still takes his hand as they leave the auditorium. “I don’t need you to tell me,” she sniffs. “Of course I passed. It was—what did you say?—phenomenal.” 

Pulling her closer, the Doctor presses a kiss to her hairline. “Of course you were,” he says, then adds, “for an archaeologist.” 

River swats him in the arm and he laughs, kissing her temple again, fingers still laced between hers, like he can’t stop touching her. Instead of going to her dorm, he leads her to the TARDIS, parked discretely behind the greenhouse. 

“A bit presumptuous, aren’t you?” she says, even as her hearts and mind quiet and calm just in the proximity of the TARDIS. She hasn’t seen the Old Girl for far too long, and she can’t help running a hand over the door slowly, wood smooth on her skin. 

“She’s missed you,” he says. “So have I.” 

“Even this me?” 

She doesn’t mean to say it. It’s a thought she’s tried her best to bury, but the words come out and the TARDIS hums soothingly, like fingers through her hair, and the Doctor smiles sadly. 

“Every you.” 

She softens at that, and with only a bit of trepidation, arches up on her toes and kisses his cheek. It's enough of an apology for her, and when she slips into the TARDIS, she feels his hand brush over her spine. 

"So. Where are we off to, then? I can’t be gone long—I have to pack and prepare for graduation; I'm giving a speech at the ceremony."

"Ah! Yes, of course!" The Doctor drops her bag by the console, rifles through his pocket, and hands her a folded sheet of paper. "Already got that."

"Got what?"

"Your speech."

River frowns. "But I haven't written it yet."

"You will do."

River chuckles and takes the paper, skimming over the words. "Isn't that cheating?"

"Nah. Well. Just a bit."

Grinning, she pockets the note for later. "Well, that'll take a load off."

"I thought it might."

With the flick of a lever, he throws the TARDIS into the vortex. River runs her hands over the controls, letting the warmth of the ship seep into her bones. Her mind is still elsewhere, still on her thesis, her words, the accusations of the review panel, and she wonders if he heard them. Wonders again if he knows. If she dares ask. 

Licking her lips, she hedges, "So. How long were you there? In the auditorium."

"Heard the whole thing," he says proudly, skidding around the console. He’s much more graceful this go-around, all his limbs coordinated. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Well. Maybe the world, if needs must, but it didn't, so. Here I am." He beams at her from around the monitor. "Did I mention it was phenomenal?"

"Once or twice." She hesitates. "Doctor...about...about the questions—at the end, they—"

He lays a hand over hers. "It's all right."

She shakes her head. "You shouldn't have had to hear that. It's why I didn't ask you—"

"I know. Always trying to protect me." He rubs a them over her skin before pulling away. "It's not their fault. And they're right, in a way. Or would have been, if your thesis had been accurate."

She tempers down the hope that rises in her chest and adopts an offended tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He grins. "Do you have it?" he asks, rocking back on his heels. "The real version."

"What real version?"

"Don't play coy with me, Doctor Song," he says, voice light and eyes soft. "You're clever, far too clever, even for me. I didn't know then, but I do now. All that research. All those years nipping through time and space, studying me, studying the Time War. You _know._ " 

"Know what?"

"The truth. What no one else knows. Just a handful. Just us." He smiles, leaning into her space. “Gallifrey..." he coaxes.

She bites her lip. "Doctor—"

He looks like a schoolboy, almost—she can see the echoes of the Doctor she knows best, the inner child as he nearly vibrates with energy next to her; but it isn’t a cover, this time. Isn’t a ploy to distract his audience, isn’t an effort to stay young to keep from remembering that he’s old. It’s joy, a joy he wants to share, and River feels her hearts squeeze and lift. 

"Say it, River,” he murmurs, taking her hands again. “Please."

Pulling away gently, she keeps his gaze as she steps backwards, until she reaches her bag. Breaking her glance, she kneels to open it, bigger on the inside, and slowly, carefully, retrievers a heavy, leather-bound book. Cradling it to her chest, she moves back to him, wary. 

"Are you sure you want—"

He nods, and with a last glance at the title, she offers him the book. He takes the volume reverently, stroking the embossed letters. "You made this?"

River swallows tightly. "I wrote the last five chapters by hand. This is the only copy. I thought—” She stops, and he glances up at her. 

“Thought what?” 

“I thought maybe...when the time was right you might...want it. I couldn’t write what actually happened in my dissertation,” she continues nervously, “They wouldn’t have believed it, for a start, but if you—I mean, you were so—I didn’t understand, at first, but then I realised that you couldn’t remember. Your previous regenerations, I mean, couldn’t remember, so I wrote an alternate version, the one everyone thinks happened. Otherwise, none of it makes sense, does it?” She looks away. “And if you’d read it _before_ , I just—I wasn’t sure—”

“You did the right thing, dear,” he says. He glances back down at the book and opens it slowly, thumbing through the pages. The first section is automated handwriting, he can tell—it looks like hers, but edited, printed. The last few chapters, he can smell the parchment, the ink, a bit of her sweat still on the pages. It’s impeccable, of course, but still. It must have taken her ages. The only copy in the universe. 

“I’ve seen this, you know,” he murmurs. “In various places throughout the TARDIS. The library, the storage room. I always thought she made it. I thought it was a reminder of how far I fell that day, and I wanted no part of it. I didn’t want to remember.”

“I know.”

He smiles. “I know you know.” 

“Doctor…” 

“Say it, River.” 

So she does, in a low, quiet voice, the lost language of his people— _their_ people—rolling off her tongue. “Gallifrey stands.” 

He smiles, laying the book on the console, a space just large enough, and he pats the TARDIS in thanks. “Gallifrey stands. Out there somewhere. Locked away. _Safe._ ” 

“You did it.”

“I had help.”

She shakes her head fondly. “I see the ego’s a bit smaller this go around.” 

He gasps, mock-affronted. “My ego is plenty big, thank you! No, wait. That’s not how that’s supposed to go.” 

River chuckles, and the Doctor grabs her hand, twirling her around, spinning her into an easy waltz around the console, and she laughs delightedly, clinging to his arm. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Everything! Got my spaceship. Got my w—got my River. And somewhere out there are living, breathing Time Lords.” 

He spins her once more, and when she comes back to him, he cradles her close to his chest, swaying softly. 

“You can go home,” she murmurs, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

“ _We_ can go home, River.” 

She shakes her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, all too aware of how _human_ she is compared to him. To them. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t be silly,” he chides. “Two hearts, big clever brain, crazy hair. They’ll love you.” He pauses and frowns. “On second thought, I change me mind. You stay away, far away. No other Time Lords for you. Can’t have you getting swept away by the Corsair or some other ugly-robed hooligan.” 

He tightens his grip on her for emphasis, and River blushes faintly, not used to his possessiveness. 

“I think you’re safe,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers over the loose collar at his throat.

“Excellent. I’d hate to start another war.”

“Idiot,” she replies, but she knows how much it cost him, how far he’s come if he’s able to joke about it; how far he’s come _with her_ that he’s willing to vocalise his jealousy. 

“So!” He spins away, then, circling the console as she chatters. “Where shall we away? New New China? The Ruckatu Islands in the North of Ki? Oh! Planet of the Museums. You can look at old dusty things and point at them and read their placards. You know what, no, never mind, no Museum planet—although they have a marvellous gift shop! Takes up a whole continent!” 

River chuckles. “Whatever you want, sweetie.”

He perks up even more at the endearment, pulling levers and knobs and darting around the console. The TARDIS wheezes, and River instinctively silences the noise. The Doctor pokes his head around the cloister bell and pouts. “You ruined it.”

“I fixed it.”

He huffs, pointing a finger at her. “Fourteen hundred years of time and space, it’s always made that noise. Don’t you give me that brakes nonsense again.”

River frowns. “Brakes?”

“Yes, you’re constantly on about how I leave the brakes on and it makes that noise—which I maintain is a brilliant noise—but just because you disagree doesn’t mean I’m flying her wrong, I’m flying her _perfectly_ and I basically just started the whole brake mocking by telling you this, didn’t I?”

River smirks. “Spoilers.”

“Damn it,” he grumbles, but he’s still grinning, and River mock gasps. 

“Doctor, _language._ ” 

He snorts. “Don’t you _language_ me, Doctor Song. I’ve seen you curse a storm up to make Taltani truck drivers blush and I know perfectly well what you can do with that mouth.”

River arches an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Rounding the console, he presses into her, her back to the controls. “Quite intimately," he murmurs, and she hides a shudder behind a smirk. 

"Looking forward to it."

He taps her nose. "As you should be. So. New New China?"

River considers. "I've heard the revolution was interesting."

"Already done it." He winks. "Spoilers."

“Okay. Asgard?”

“Nah. Been there, done that. Excellent picnic, by the way.”

“And that’s not spoilers?”

He shrugs, a teasing glint in his eyes. “How else will you know to bring my favourite sandwiches?”

River snorts. “What do I look like, your wife?”

The Doctor laughs, but it’s forced, and he flinches, covering it with a head scratch. His smile falters for a moment, and River feels suddenly horrid. She knows about his past, about his wife and children on Gallifrey. About those he’s lost. 

Approaching cautiously, she reaches out and places a hand gently on his arm, shocked when he turns immediately into her touch, covering her hand with his. There’s something in his expression, something unreadable, but it’s only a millisecond; then he grins, and taps her nose, and River huffs. "All right then. You choose."

The Doctor hums thoughtfully. "We could always stay here."

River looks up from where she's been studying a keypad and frowns. "You never want to stay in."

"Younger version, big on the running. Not that there's anything wrong with it, of course, love the running. But sometimes it's nice. Wandering the TARDIS."

River holds her breath. She's wanted to explore the TARDIS for so long, since her first moment inside, but he's always resisted, always dragged her off to some planet or another and then dropped her back at Luna. He never stays with her, never lets her stay, and she's tried not to let it affect her. Tried not to doubt.

"It'll take a while," he says quietly, eyes crinkling with regret. "My eleventh self—he's good at grand gestures. Big speeches. The little things..." He shakes his head. "He'll come around. Not long now, in fact. Things are—things will change soon, River, and I'm sorry."

"Change how?"

"Spoilers." He pushes the word out like a curse. "But I promise, whatever he does, whatever he says..." The Doctor sighs. "I was a right fool, then. Too scared of what might happen if I let you in."

River bristles. "Why would you be scared? It's not because...because of Berlin, is it? I'm not—I'm not her anymore, and I know the truth now, and I would never hurt you, or your friends or—"

"No, no, River." He takes her hand and tugs her close. "That never worried me. Never. What happened in Berlin wasn't your fault."

"But I tried—"

"You had no choice."

River swallows tightly and looks down, ashamed. "There's always a choice." When he doesn't reply, just smoothes his thumb over her wrist, she takes a breath and says, "We never talk about it. It happened, and I—I killed you, and then you gave me a diary and I woke up alone and—and I didn't see you for years. And then you just showed up at my apartment and whisked me away like it was all fine but I was never—never sure if—what it was." When she meets his gaze, his eyes are dark and narrowed and she backtracks, attempting to pull away. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No. Of course you should. I never realised..." He sighs. "And I should have. There will come a time when you and I...we won't need words. He was used to that. Used to assuming that you knew, when how could you?"

"Knew what?"

He cups her cheek in his palm. "That I'm quite besotted with you, River Song. Even then. Even when it looks like I'm running. I'm just...I'm just taking the long way round, as it were. But the destination's always the same. Always you."

River blinks, overwhelmed by the admission, the fondness in his eyes, the feel of his skin on hers, and it’s too much. She doesn’t remember much of her childhood, or adolescence, or much of anything really and completely until she woke up in an empty hospital room with only a blue book and a satchel full of currency to get by on. She’s always had to make her own way, always lived on the edge with no one to catch her but she knows, now, that she was wrong. There is someone. There’s always been, weaving through time and space, and it’s the first time she can remember that she’s felt cherished. Adored. 

Wanted. 

River blinks, determined not to cry, and the Doctor smiles at her, like he knows. She wants to tell him, to thank him, to reassure him that it goes both ways and that she loves him, more than anything in the universe. But she can’t speak, can hardly breathe, and the Doctor seems to understand, because he swoops in and presses a kiss to her other cheek and then grabs her hand, tugging her toward the hallway. 

“Now then! Shall we explore? There are so many things to see and do, just in the TARDIS! Squash courts, swimming pool, arts and crafts. There’s a whole room just for knitting! Love knitting. Never seem to find the time. Oh! Speaking of, there’s a statis room as well, a zero-gravity room—” He gives her a sidelong look. “Not like that. Well. Sometimes like that.” He winks. River gives a watery laugh. “There’s an elevator that never stops, so watch out for that. Got stuck in there for a month, once. Never again.” He shudders dramatically. “On your left we have a darkroom, up top is a castle circa 1657—be careful, though, one of the turrets is wearing a bit thin. Should probably have her fix that, eh?” 

He leads her down a maze of hallways, opening doors and poking his head in, only giving her a brief moment to survey the rooms. “Down this way we’ve got the wardrobes, passed the helter skelter, pumpkin patch, laundry room—who does laundry, seriously?—ooh! This room’s got a ball pit and a slide, and over that way is the pickle factory, and across this hall—”

“Pickle factory?” 

He sniffs. “Fifth self, pickles and celery. Don’t ask.” 

Dragging her along, his hand in hers, he shows her everything from the enormous twilight room with a virtual map of stars and constellations, to the forest that stretches for miles in every direction. He shows her the dance studio and art gallery, the Eye of Harmony and the zero room. He shows her a linen closet the size of Wales. 

River asks questions and points out things and teases him mercilessly about time-locking a leaking faucet when he could have just used a wrench, and doesn’t even notice when she loops her arm through his and starts dragging _him_ around, chattering excitedly. Nothing ends in the TARDIS, nothing begins, and she feels a sense of peace at that—everything existing all at once, starting all at once, dying all at once. It’s liberating, and when she tells the Doctor, he smiles and taps her nose and says, “I know exactly where we should go next.”

River lets him lead, only detouring slightly to awe over the target practice and training room (the Doctor protests profusely, of course, but River just pats the wall in silent thanks, and the TARDIS hums under her palm). 

“Well, one of us has to stay in shape, and it’s obviously not going to be you,” she teases, and he pouts, and stomps down the hall until they reach a soft blue door. It shimmers silver, and River looks up at him expectantly. “What’s in here?”

He waves a hand, letting go of hers for the first time. “Go see.”

Tentatively, River pushes open the door, steps inside and gasps. 

“It’s the Architectural Reconfiguration System,” he says, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. “Well, that’s the boring title anyway. I like to call it the Tree of Life.” 

The orbs glow softly, etched with Gallifreyan, and River wanders through the wires, like willow branches, her touch soft and reverent. “It’s beautiful.”

“Any room you want, anything you need, you can make here. There are easier ways, of course, but. One orb alone is worth more than any currency could possibly calculate. The Tree itself...the TARDIS will protect it at all costs.”

River shakes her head slightly, hair falling in her eyes. “How does it work?”

Pushing off the wall, he looms over her shoulder as she examines one of the orbs. “I’ll show you.” Standing behind her, he finds a loose wire, and cups her hands together over the end. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, “And think about what you want.”

“I don’t know.”

“It can be anything. Toy shoppe, chocolate factory, a sauna the size of Texas. It’s a telepathic interface, so the more detail you can give her, the more accurate it will be.”

She bites her lip, considering. “Anything?” 

He nods. “Anything.”

Hesitating, River closes her eyes and concentrates. She keeps her hands over the end of the wire, safely nestled in the Doctor’s, and does her best to remember, to see the shape of things, feel the texture, the smell. Beneath her hands, she feels the tiny bulb start to grow, expanding out into one of the glowing orbs, like a balloon, but porcelain. It’s cool to the touch, and when it stops, she opens her eyes. The Doctor drops his hands, and she does the same. 

“Well? Want to go see your room?”

River swallows, looking around. “I didn’t ask for a room. Just one thing.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “It’s not here, so it must not have worked.” 

The Doctor nods, but says nothing, and River pushes down her disappointment. Turning, she smiles brightly and takes his hand again. “So. What else have you got for me?”

His grin is back in an instant, and he leads her out of the Reconfiguration System, down several hallways and flights of stairs. It’s a long walk, but she’s distracted, thinking about the Tree, and she barely notices when the Doctor finally stops in front of a blue door, the same blue as the TARDIS, with Gallifreyan etched into the wood. 

“ ‘Home’?” she reads. 

He nods— “Home.”—and pushes open the door. 

It’s a bedroom, like some of the others she’s seen, but bigger. Decorated in Earth tones, with shelves full of books and artifacts. There’s a sofa and a table, a vanity and a skylight. It’s beautiful, all dark woods and warm lighting. She trails her hands over various objects, picking some up and examining them. 

“Who’s room is this?” she asks. 

“It’s ours,” he says, a hint of sadness in his voice. “It’s our room.”

River’s eyes widen, and she realises how perfect it is—a combination of both their interests, their styles. It’s calm and bright, warm and dark. It’s spacious, but not vast, and the bed is big enough for only two people. Everything is soft and lush, and she notices some of her things, finally. Things that looked familiar before, like a textbook and a scarf and a pair of earrings. On the desk is a slinky and the remains of what was probably a remote control, something the Doctor’s taken apart. His reading glasses are on the nightstand, and there, in the centre of the bed, nestled between the pillows, is a worn and tattered book. The front is so faded, crinkled and ripped, that the title and image are barely visible, and she knows without picking it up that pages 7-10 and 81-85 are missing. It doesn’t matter. She knows them by heart. 

The Doctor moves quietly to her side, but doesn’t touch her.

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it?” he asks.

She swallows tightly. “I—it was my only—” She clears her throat. “It was the only book I had. That I can remember, I—I think...I remember toys, sometimes. A few stuffed animals, and photographs...some kind of spinning top. But I didn’t—they didn’t want me to read anything, in case—” She stops abruptly. 

“In case it was about me,” he finishes, and she nods. 

“I found that. Or the keeper gave it to me. I can’t—I don’t remember how—But I kept it. I hid it under a loose floorboard under the bed.” She closes her eyes, flinching at the flashes of memory—she can’t remember if it was the floorboard or the cabinet, the keeper or or someone else. She doesn’t remember what happened to it, only that she read it. Over and over and over again, under the covers with a candle. There are wax stains on half the pages and charred corners from the flames and River shakes her head, almost frantic. 

“How is that possible? How can she make something that doesn’t even exist for her?” 

“It’s real for you. It’s real in her future, and you created it. From buried memories. Every moment we’re awake is stored somewhere in our minds, and the TARDIS can access that.”

She looks up at him. “Does she know, then? What really happened?” _To me_ goes unsaid, and the Doctor looks away. 

“No,” he admits. “Your memory is too frayed. Every time you looked at one of the Silence, and looked away, it caused a tear.”

River frowns. “The Silence?”

The Doctor flinches. “Sorry,” he says. “Spoilers.”

“Doctor—”

“I can’t tell you, River. If you can’t remember…”

She grits her teeth. “But if you know what happened—”

“I don’t,” he lies. “I don’t know everything, or even most of it. You have to—” He inhales sharply. “You have to live it, River. We both do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not changing anything,” he says, firm but not unkind. “I’m not rewriting anything, not one line, because if I do—if I do, it could change this. Us.” 

River shakes her head, deflating slightly. “I don’t want that.”

“Good,” he says, his shoulders dropping. “And I promise. Whatever happens, I’ll be there. I’ll always be there. Okay?”

She nods, but despite his reassurances, doesn’t quite believe it. Doesn’t believe _him_ , she realises, and it makes her chest ache. She wants to trust him. So, so badly, she wants one person in her life she can trust without fail. This Doctor, she thinks, she might learn to believe in. Might put her heart in his hands. 

But he’s the same man, every time, and she _knows that_. One good day with this Doctor doesn’t erase the past, or the future, or anything in between, and it _hurts._ Hugging the book to her chest, River steps away, crossing to a window that looks out at a night sky. Running her thumb over the spine of the book, River takes a deep breath. 

“You were so _angry_. I’d heard the stories, you know. Not sure where, but I’d heard them. The Oncoming Storm, the Valeyard. The Destroyer of Worlds. But after Berlin, to me you were just...Doctor.” She shrugs, staring past his reflection in the window to the stars outside. “You were so clever, in Berlin. So mad and wonderful and you cared, so much. About them. About me.” Her voice cracks, and the Doctor steps forward, a hand outstretched. He lets it fall to his side, and she’s grateful. 

“I do care,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, and River nods. 

“I know. I know you do, sweetie. I just…” 

“Just what?” he coaxes. 

She turns, peering at him over her shoulder her eyes bright. She isn’t crying. She doesn’t cry. Even for him. “You threatened me, Doctor. That day in the library. You—”

“I know.” His chin drops to his chest. “I know what I said. River, I’m—” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” He winces, and she turns fully, placing a hand on his arm. “I understand. I’m not trying to blame you, or—”

“You should." His eyes darken, and she resists the urge to step away. "You should blame me. By rights you shouldn't even be here, you—"

She inhales sharply. "Do you want me here?"

He closes his eyes. "Of course I do. I always want—"

"Don't lie to me," she snaps. "I'm not some wide-eyed little girl you can pull the sheet over with exotic planets and adventures. You may have been cruel, then, but at least it was the truth—"

"No, it wasn't, that's the point," he returns, tugging sharply at his hair. "That's the _point,_ River. You know me. Even now, you know me better than anyone and you know—" He pauses to take a deep breath, before lowering his voice, reaching through the space between them and curling his fingers over her arm. "I told you, never run when you're scared, but I don't always follow my own rules. I never follow my own rules. I make them up, make others follow them but I—I've never been strong enough. All that...all that anger, River, it wasn't for you. It was for myself." He bows his head. "It's always for myself." Trailing his hand down her arm, he gently pries the book from her grasp and sets it aside, so he can hold her hands between them. Meeting her gaze, he admits, "He never deserved you. There are moments, were moments, in my past, your future, that he did all right. There are so many things to look forward to—stars and supernovas and galaxies born before our eyes, and I can't regret those times, not one of them. But the truth is, he didn't deserve you. I never—and I'm trying, this go-around. I'm trying to fix it, River. And it's selfish and hypocritical but I just keep…” He searches for the word. “ _praying_...that if I can be there every time he's not, if I can give you back now what you gave me then, that I won't..."

"Won't what?"

"Lose you.” He brings her hands to his chest. “I can't lose you."

"You won't." Untangling their fingers, she brushes the fringe out of his eyes. “Oh, sweetie,” she murmurs as he tilts his cheek into her palm. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

“Figured what out?”

“That I’m quite besotted with you.” 

Chuckling, the Doctor nods, pulling her free hand to his lips. River huffs, though secretly pleased with the gesture, and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing him to her tightly, tracing _I love you_ over his spine in wide circles. He squeezes her back, face buried in her neck, and she doesn’t know how long they stand there, but it’s long enough for her arms to ache. She doesn’t care. 

Still, it’s been a long day from her perspective, and she can’t quite stifle the yawn into his hair. The Doctor laughs, pulling back and kissing her cheek on his way. 

“Tired, Doctor Song?”

She lights up at the title. “Some of us have been up for forty hours straight— _without_ cheating.” 

The Doctor sighs, as if put out, but his hands linger on her hips, and his gaze is fond. “I suppose a spot of shuteye wouldn’t hurt.”

River nods gratefully, arching up to kiss his cheek before making her way toward the door. Behind her, the Doctor clears his throat, and when she turns back, he’s arching his eyebrows, staring at her bemusedly. 

“What?”

“It’s your room, dear.”

River blinks, looking around and remembers. Her room. _Their_ room. She hesitates.

“Are you going to stay?” 

His face softens. “If you like.”

She nods, and he follows her in toeing off his shoes and sliding onto the bed. He stays sitting up, back against the headboard, and she curls on her side, peering up at him, eyes heavy. 

“You aren’t going to sleep?”

He shakes his head, pulling a book from the nightstand. “Got a bit of reading to do.”

River frowns at the volume she gave him. “I thought you left that in the—”

He grins, and she rolls her eyes. “Lazy,” she mumbles, burrowing into the pillow.

“Says the woman taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Forty. Hours.”

He scoffs. “Child’s play. Talk to me at seventy.”

Reaching out, she thumps him on the arm, but her grabs her hand and kisses it again, keeping her hand trapped in his near his thigh. 

“Read the ending,” she murmurs. 

“Hmm?”

“The end. Read the ending.”

He huffs. “I hate endings.”

River smiles into his shirt. “I think you’ll like this one.” 

There’s a bit of hesitation in her voice, and he must catch it, because he turns with minimal grumbling to the back of her thesis. Picking up his glasses from the nightstand, he shoves them up his nose, and in a quiet voice, reads the last page.

_“ ‘Everybody knows that everybody dies, and nobody knows it like the Doctor. The man who held in his grasp the most powerful weapon capable of ending the most brutal war. Most men would run from such a responsibility. Most men would have justified their action, given in to the belief that death was the only option, the only way out. It isn’t. And I do think that all the skies of all the worlds, might just turn dark if he ever, for one moment, accepts it._

_“ ‘Everybody knows that everybody dies. But not every day. Not that day. Not in the days to come. There’s always a way out. Always another path, and while the Doctor may be only a man, he is a man neither cowardly or cruel. He never gives up. Never gives in, even when all hope seems lost._

_“ ‘We owe a debt to a man who will never want for our allegiance, will never ask anything of us other than we be the very best we can be. Above all, I believe, we owe him our days. The days behind us. The days to come. The days when nobody dies at all, we honour him. Because every now and then, every once in a very long while, every day in a million days, when the wind stands fair, and the Doctor comes to call...everybody lives.’ ”_

He closes the book. Folds his glasses. Sets both on the table near the bed and shifts, scooting down the bed to face her in the dimming light. 

“Was it okay?” she whispers. 

She’s barely finished when he surges forward, hands cradling her cheeks as his mouth finds hers and he kisses her like she’s always hoped he would. Like she’s something treasured, something special to him and him alone. He kisses her until she can’t breathe, until she tears her mouth from his for air and he peppers kisses across her nose and forehead and jaw and when he presses his cheek to hers it’s only then she realises he’s crying, just a few silent tears. 

“River,” he breathes, and she realises—they’re happy tears. It makes her own eyes prickle, and she kisses him again, and again, until they’re breathing more of each other than air. 

“It’s us, isn’t it?” she asks, breathless and unsure. “You and me?” She can’t quell the hope in her tone, or the fear, or the longing, and the Doctor brushes his lips over hers to quiet the sound. 

“Time and space, River Song,” he promises, and she smiles.

She drifts off to the feeling of his hand stroking through her hair, and wakes up to his hand, warm at the centre of her back.


End file.
